


Despicable

by Laureo



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 1920s, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Deaf Character, Drama, Eventual Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laureo/pseuds/Laureo
Summary: In 1920s New York, two notorious gangs, The Authority and The Ministry, battle it out for the right to be called the dominant gang of New York. Multiple Chars, Multiple Pairings. OCs from other fics of mine.
Relationships: Kane (Professional Wrestling)/Original Female Character(s), Stephanie McMahon/Triple H, The Undertaker (Professional Wrestling)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

October 1920

Hunter Hearst Helmsley considered himself an honest man. He kept his head down, on straight, and did his work, never raising too much conflict. And here, today, he thought perhaps all that hard and honest work would pay off. As a representative of McMahon Co, son of the previous 2nd in command, he was no stranger to Vincent McMahon. However, to gain a private meeting with the head of the company was no small feat, it certainly wasn't anything easily attainable. His father had gone, leaving a hole in the company, for sure. Who better to take that spot than the man's own flesh and blood? Therefore, it had to be good news when he found he'd been summoned for personally. His knuckles rapped on the door, but the young woman next to him did not seem nearly as thrilled to attend another boring meeting with her cousin's boring friends. The young woman, unaware that the sigh she heaved had been quite audible, was interrupted from her pouting by the clapping of hands before her face. Her attention shot up to the man beside her.

"Now!" Mr. Helmsley nudged the girl. "Keep your chin up, can't be having you bring Mr. McMahon down during our meeting. You'll have a better life too, you know."

Somarya said nothing, only nodded.

"And try to smile." His fingers pinched at the sides of his mouth at her to make Ms. Espinosa understand his words, proceeding to roll his eyes at the cheesy grin he was rewarded with in response. Somarya Espinosa, ward of the Helmsley family, came to them at the tender age of 6, her mother unable to care for her, so ill she needed New York Doctors. She barely made the trip, barely lived through the doctors trestments. But her life didn't cone without a price, that was for sure. Her mother didn't want her back, said she was a curse. The Helmsley sister, Martha, took her step daughter, more than happy to care for the girl. That is, until the cotton industry collapsed and again, here was Somarya, under the care of Mr Helmsley once more.

The polished oak door creaked open, a man larger than Mr. Helmsley had ever seen, could even imagine, poked his massive head through the crack. He possessed a physique only told of in Homeric Epics, until this moment.

"Hunter Helmsley?" The beast growled, huge meaty paws gripping the door frame to bend down. "He'll see you now."

Exchanging no more greeting than this, he lumbered off to open the foyer door. Quickly the young visitors discarded of their coats and hats in said foyer, Mr. Helmsley taking this moment to straighten out his ascot, Somarya to fluff her hair back out. The two finally crossed the threshold from the foyer to the office, soft thanks muttered to the substantially sized greeting committee.

"Hah!" A new voice snapped the newcomer to attention from the empty depths of the lavishly decorated office space, the jolt of his suprise catching the eye of young Ms. Espinosa, who also soon saw the source of Hunter's flinch. "Mr. Helmsley, so very glad you came!"

Mr. McMahon rushed to meet them, an older gentleman, tall, but not remarkably so. Today he held a kindly expression, but with eyes that looked like they held a secret.

"Mr. McMahon." Hunter stiffened, reaching out a heavy hand for a shake and a formal greeting. "Pleasure to see you once more."

"Likewise, likewise!" The elder man exclaimed, taking Mr. Helmsley's hand almost too firmly, vigorously shaking it up and down. "I see you've met Kane, my bruno."

Mr. McMahon looked over to the creature, which had moved to the boss's side, arms crossed and face locked in a permanent scowl. Mr. McMahon clapped Kane on the shoulder, exclaiming. "And what a bang up job he does as my muscle!"

Hunter laughed nervously, holding his hand out to the taller man as well. Kane simply huffed, chin tilting up. Mr. Helmsley retreated his hand immediately with a muttered, "Okay..."

"And who " Mr. McMahon all but lept forward to catch Somarya's hand in his, raising the knuckles to his lips. "Might this ravishing creature be?"

Young Ms. Espinosa's discomfort was apperent, she gave a tight-lipped smile regardless, shifting and looking helplessly up at her cousin.

"This is my father's ward, or, rather, I should say she is my ward now. Mr. McMahon, please meet my step-cousin, Ms. Somarya Espinosa." Hunter stated matter of factly.

"Your father took a ward?!" McMahon was suprised, dropping Somarya's hand and wiping it on his pants as if he'd regretted toching her, his confidence faltering, saying guiltily, "So, a minor, then?"

"No, 19," the drop in Mr. McMahon's shoulders of relief was noted. "But deaf. Hoping soon to find a man to take her off my hands. But until she marries, she's under my charge." A long and awkward pause followed, directed a a very uncomfortable Somarya.

"So let's get down do business, eh?" McMahon beckoned Mr. Helmsley over, clapping the ypung man on the shoulder. "Kane, keep Lady Somarya busy, will you, Mr. Helmsley and I have much to discuss!"

Somarya looked desperately over at Hunter, being shuffled quickly away, then with wide eyes up at the present company. She felt at once dwarfed by him, his chest heaved, scowl ever present, before she was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and pushed to another room, every one of her senses alight.

Hunter was ushered, almost forcefully, into Mr. McMahon's study. He plopped down on the chair opposite a wide cherrywood desk. The elder man dashed over to a glass-face cabinet, pulling out a large wooden box, digging out two brown sticks and, turning to Mr. Helmsley offered, "Cigar?"

"Please." the younger man accepted, taking it from Mr. McMahon's hand when it was thrust towards him. He waited for the light to come, igniting the cigar with a small puff of some and giving his thanks as Mr. McMahon lit his own.

"One thing the Prohibition didn't take from us, huh?" McMahon commented, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. "Ah, what do you think of those Mets?"

There was hardly anything else to talk about, now that the new accessibility of the radio was broadcasting the World Series, and of two New York teams, no less!

"Oh, they are doing well, but..." Hunter sucked the smoke up into his mouth, the taste smooth, this cigar obviously expensive. "More of a Giants man myself."

Mr. McMahon cackled, ashing his cigar on the crystal dish that sat on his desk, almost overflowing with flakes of grey. "Just like your father, you are!"

Hunter smiled in return, reaching across the wood to ash his own, McMahon was friendly, but Hunter was never a patient man: "So, Mr. McMahon, what is it you needed to see me for?"

"Oh, right to business I see!" He seemed delighted by the bluntness that he'd just been confronted with, making a quivering little tent with his spindly fingers. "As you know, your father left quite the hole in this business, and who but a Helmsley could ever take that place? I'l be caught dead before anyone but a Helmsley is at my right hand."

Hunter almost beamed, warmth spreading through his body with the joy of such an opportunity. Standing and extending his hand excitedly, he said, "I'd be honored! It would be a pleasure, Mr. McMahon. I thank you!"

"Vince, please." The elder man snapped and batted the hand away good-naturedly. "That is not all. He also left quite the gap in my... operation."

Hunter's head tilted to one side in great confusion. He was unsure what the boss meant by 'operation'. "Sir?"

"Mr. Rollins!" Vince snapped, a clean cut young man with a neatly trimmed beard and dark curly hair poked his head through the back door of the office, inquiring,

"Boss?"

"Please do fetch a decanter for us, Mr. Helmsley is about to learn quite a lot about his father, and this company." Children were generally left out of these sorts of dealings. But, Hunter was no more a child, and it was high time he knew what else his late father had done in the name of the company.

"A decanter, why, Mr. McMahon," Hunter sat, his voice quivering with a nervous uptick as he leaned in, whispering, "This is a dry country, sir!"

Vince smiled feindishly at his new protege, chuckling lightly at his naivety. "Not for us, it isn't."

Somarya huffed after being shoved unceremoniously onto a loveseat in the sitting room. Kane had growled at her, "Sit."

She, however, remained unaware, beginning to rise, ready to explore the well placed and expensive decor about the room. Exquisite Victorian flourishes donned each chair in the room, a turqouise turkish rug covering polished wood paneled flooring. With little care for whatever Kane had gotten up to, she begand towards the drawn golden curtains, desiring to look outside. Just as nimble fingers grasped the cloth, her shoulders were entrapped once more. An odd squeal escape from her lips, she turned about like lightning, fearful dark eyes looking up at McMahon's beast.

"Sit." He commanded, this time, a little more forcefully, his grasp noticeably tighter than last. She minded the man this time, folding her hands politely in her lap and watching as he moved about the room. Suprisingly graceful, for a man his size, his hands retrieved something Somarya hadn't seen in a very long time. A decanter set of beautiful, solid crystal. Full of liquor.

"That's illegal." She remarked, and they were the first words she'd said all day. The behemoth looked at her and rolled his eyes, bringing it over to where she sat, folded in on herself and trying not to take up too much space after the second time she'd been shoved in a chair against her will. This man, this, Kane, uncapped the decanter, pouring about a half inch straight into a small glass, bringing it over to the woman, setting it down on the coffee table before her with a soft thud.

Returning to the cabinet, he started to put the set away. Somarya made no move for the drink he poured, watching him instead, until his attention diverted and, looking to see what had interrupted his ritual, she saw another man, younger, with dark hair, enter.

"Boss needs that," the new one said, stepping up to Kane. "Does he know you're breaking into it, bud?"

Kane said nothing. He didn't much feel like he owed him an explanation. Eyes narrowed, chest puffed out, his hand simply motioned toward the other body in the room.

"Huh," Mr. Rollins scoffed, regarding the young woman placed politely on the embroidered royal blue loveseat. "Who's the ankle?"

Saying nothing, the beast of a man simply slid the tray holding the decanter set towards the younger man. After a tense moment, the young man slinked away, not wont to keep his boss waiting, casting another glance at the young woman on the sofa, ankles crossed, gazing in interest at the gentlemen's interaction.

Mr. Rollins returned to Mr. McMahon's office forthwith, tray begrudgingly in hand. It should have been him, asked to be McMahon's right hand. This Helmsley boy knew nothing of the world, and nothing tmof the operation. And he deserved such an honor by, what? Bloodright? No matter, Mr. Rollins often soothed himself with the thought that his time would come, and soon. Not too much longer, and he wouldn't have to endure being treated as an overglorified butler. That should have been Kane's job.

Mr. Helmsley shifted in his chair, feeling at once very small in this vast office. What could Mr. McMahon possibly mean? Mr. Rollins returned, delicately balancing the whiskey glasses and vase on a silver tray, setting the drinks down before the two men.

Vince's eyes narrowed at the crystal, remarking, ever observant, "This is missing a glass."

"For the girl." Mr. Rollins placated, taking his leave.

Vince nodded slowly, fair enough. She was just as much a guest in this place as her elder cousin. He couldn't fault Kane for making his guest's stay comfortable.

Hunter's eyes shot open wide, "You mean my cousin is alone, with liquor, and with that beast of a man no less-"

Vince waved off his concern, chuckling at the notion, "No worries, no worries, Kane's doesn't feel human emotion! He's practically an automaton." More cackling laughter could be heard throughout the office at the very notion. Shaking his greying head, the boss poured out two equal libations, one slid over to Hunter, the sound of near-hollow glass skidding on the flat surface the only sound in the room. "Now, young Mr. Helmsley, let's talk about your future, shall we? But first, a toast to it."

As the other stranger left, the final man in the room crossed slowly across the floor, seating himself on the same loveseat he'd forced Somarya into. The woman sunk further into the corner created by the armrest, two cushions were nowhere near large enough for a man of his size, let alone adding her to the mix. He didn't even seem to notice in the slightest how abnormal of a position this was. However, Somarya certainly wasn't about to pipe up and ask him what on earth he was doing. In all fairness, he didn't feel like continuing to follow her around, forcing her to sit everytime she looked out a window.

Being seen through the window of Vince McMahon's office was a very, very dangerous thing, he thought, reminding himself how many of the McMahon's he'd thrown himself on top of while gunfire busted through the windows. No, it wouldn't happen again. They would keep the curtains closed.

For several tense beats, neither moved, until Kane's fingers pushed the glass of liquor closer to the table's edge wordlessly. Somarya, with shaking hand, reached for it. She'd never tried any of it, after all now that she was an adult, it was illegal to have such contraband. These business men, in their expensive suits and grandiose sitting rooms seemed not to care about its legality. She resolved that she would not either. her long, slender fingers wrapped around the lip of the glass, bringing it to cup in her hands.

"Thank you." She offered demurely to her new companion, who gave only a side-eyed look of derision.

Glancing once more at him, she lifted the glass to her lips, taking the tiniest sip she could manage.

It was like fire. From the moment it touched her lips all the way down to her stomach it left a blazing trail on her insides. Not for her, not one bit. She knew she cough and she must have made a face, Mr. McMahon's guardsman stared at her. This time, not with condescension, or contempt, but curiosity.

"Sorry, sir." Somarya shook her head at him. "No." The glass was laid back on the table by the young woman.

A waste of alcohol, he thought, shrugging, he took the glass and downed it in one mouthful, making hardly an expression at all. But the lack of action was too much for the young woman. Gazing about the room, since she so obviously was not allowed to walk about, she saw in the corners a chess set, all grey and pink marble, with finely crafter peices showing great detail, particularly on the kings, and the knights, which were always her favorite peices by far.

Looking over to Kane, she asked, "Do you play chess?"

A simple shake of the head was the only response she received, and she thought again, "Checkers?"

Another no.

"Hmmm... what about... tic-tac-toe?"

The giant man leaned back, his suit jacket opening so he could retrieve from the innermost pocket, a small notepad, and a capped fountain pen. Flipping it open to a blank page his large fingers deftly illustrated a small grid, placing a big, black, X, right in the middle. To the man now holding the paper pad out to her, she couldn't help but smile as she took it from his hand.

"So, you're quite into illicit activity then, aren't you, Mr. McMahon?" Hunter observed, the tales of what his father really did for Vince finally sinking in. Since the start of the Prohibition of liquor, McMahon Co had been a front, and a well camouflaged one, at that. He knew now about the illegal underground booze train, smuggled all around the city, and all the cocaine... the whole thing made Hunter uncomfortable.

"Since the Prohibition started, people have wanted their fix, on all facets, who are we to refuse to provide it? Come now, there's plenty in it for you. And your ward, if you wish. Money, notoriety, special treatment..." Vince went on, attempting to tantalize Mr. Helmsley.

"What about the police?" Hunter's voice faltered with unsurety.

"We are the police." Vince stated simply. Raising his glass of contraband, he proposed another toast.

"How do you know I won't take what you have told me directly to the authorities? Someone you don't have in your back pocket?" Hunter narrowed his eyes at hos new boss.

"You know too much. I'll simply have you killed." The elder man shrugged, saying this with such ease as if it were the simplest fact in the world. Hunter seemed to remain unmoved, and Vince took this cue to lean forward in his chair, over the desk. "Come, now. Don't make me threaten your little cousin, too."

"What are we called?" Mr. Helmsley relented, raising his glass with shaking hand.

"The Authority." Mr. McMahon responded with a self-satisfied grin. The glasses were knocked together by their holders, soft clang echoing through the empty room.

"The Authority." Hunter repeated, tossing the whiskey back and swishing the liquid fire in his mouth before swallowing, setting the crystalline glass back on the desk before him. He considered the name, and the flavor of the liqour before responding, "I like that."

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

Thanks for reading!

As always, I feel like I need to provide a disclaimer to Somarya: I am not trying to discount what it means to be Hard of Hearing. I myself am d/Deaf/Hard of Hearing, and in Somarya, I wanted to created a character that is palatable to both hearing and deaf audiences, even though the time period of the AU proposes some uncomfortable situations and attitudes that were real for that time period.


	2. Chapter 2

Somarya pursed her lips. she thought she was good at this, but her every attempt seemed to be thwarted. Narrowing her eyes at the grid. They'd long ago switched to a 4x4 grid. The traditional tic-tac-toe had proved far too easy. Boring, as Kane had put it. Somarya's posture had grown more relaxed in the past hour. Every so often she'd make some sly remark, and if he said anything in response she hadn't heard it, but he continued to play the game with her so he couldn't have despised her that much.

The next time Somarya passed the notebook back to her new companion, he didn't take it. There was a muffle of voices, to her, people were talking but she didn't know where, or what they had said. Following the line of his torso, she noticed he'd turned around in the seat, two newcomers shuffling into the parlor room. Her cousin, Hunter, looked equal parts nervous and excited, and Mr. McMahon held for himself an utterly self-satisfied grin. Never, Somarya thought, had a man she'd seen looked more pleased with himself.

"See what I mean?" Mr. McMahon called back to Mr. Helmsley as he set the empty decanter tray on the far cupboard. "Unharmed."

Unaware of the exchange, Somarya looked up to her cousin, smiling lightly, in a considerably better mood than when first she walked into the office suite.

"Yes," Hunter agreed, laying a hand on Somarya's shoulder. "I suppose my worry was unfounded. Thank you, Kane for keeping her company."

The gargantuan next to his young cousin knew exactly what must have run through Hunter Helmsley's head. It wasn't an entirely unfounded concern, but still it irritated the brute, and for good reason. He flared his nostrils at Hunter, not responding to his thanks, instead standing and offering a hand to young Somarya, who took it, letting the man help her stand. She didn't need the assistance, for standing was an easy task, yet something about being allowed to touch his calloused palm when he'd yet to afford anyone else the privilege made her feel... special?

"Thank you." She muttered to him bashfully, seeing through her eyelashes that she'd been given at the least a curt nod, when Hunter had been given nothing but a stink eye.

"Come, Somarya," Hunter turned her about, so she could see him speak to her. "Let's away, we have much to discuss."

He knew not how he was to make her understand, make her realize what he had done and what was at stake. He hoped certainly, she'd have the maturity to understand that he only wanted what was best for them.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Soft grey illuminated the side street upon which Saint Bartholomew's stood, erected like some Lovecraftian Spire. Once proud and bright in its day, the cathedral had long since been abandoned by clergy and congregation, no longer did anyone care for the Saint. Whatever one builds atop Mother Earth, she will one day lay her claim to it, and the same was doubly true for the church, vine-ridden overgrowth poking through boarded up windows from either side, crawling up the stone skeleton, buttressed by crumbling, weather-battered concrete. Saint Bart's was all too ready to be absorbed into the bosom of the land. As the sun sunk low within the sky, the soft click! click! click! of new, polished, high-heeled colliding with pavement that had seen far better days than this resounded through the empty street.

The woman who prowled the streets about-faced at the short path leading to the entrance, sauntering up cracked steps that may have once been granite, worn by weather and time. Placing a hand on the exquisitely crafted handle, she pressed hard on the old oak door, smiling to herself as it fell open with a deafening pop!It was almost funny to her, how easily the door fell apart from lack of care and use. Of course they never used the front door.

A thin cloud of dust rushed to meet her as a draft of stale air escaped from the confines of it's prison. Shielding her eyes and face, she strolled through the onslaught to step into what was now practically a mausoleum. Crossing the threshold, she shut the door behind her, closing off all light which dared push through the open doorway. The hollow sound of her shoes colliding with the floor in the near-empty foyer seemed to echo through the whole building.

Near-empty. That was the trick. To the untrained eye, none were here. But she knew better than to assume this. She knew she was not alone. Little hints would cross her, the faint sound of whispering voices and shuffling feet, movement out of the corner of her eye, the distant clanging of a candlestick, she was not the only one who stalked these halls, but there was only one whom she needed.

Furthering her journey, she prowled through the Sanctuary, the safest place in the cathedral now seemed such a dim and grim place. A shadow loomed over this place, darkness reached it's every corner. The heavy sigh of a man unseen jolted the woman from her reverie.

"What are you doing here, Ms. Katixa?" A figure hidden behind the screen of a cracked-open confessional called out to here, illuminated only by sickly pale moonlight penetrating a macerated stained-glass window.

"Oh, hello, Father Calaway." The young woman gazed about the dilapidated cathedral, every corner occupied by strays, vandals, and degenerates. Somewhere, in the corner of the room, some bats got spooked, shrieking as they flew out the once-whole, colorful stained glass. "I loathe what you've done with the place."

"Don't call me that." The shadowy figure called from the confessional. Its head turned towards her, the faint outline of sharp, high cheekbones and a thousand-yard stare highlighted by the sparse light. "What do you want, Freyja?"

She smiled wickedly, crossing the room to sit her self in the other side of the confessional. Freyja shut the door slowly, wincing at the deafening creaking she earned by moving the door shut. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." She teased, knowing Mark Calaway hadn't been called "Father" since 1911.

"Freyja..." He trailed off, and in his tone was a warning. He didnt have time to play games, least of all with the murder-for-hire, impurity that always resulted in being associated with Freyja Kutlass. She'd ruined his brother, turned him away from the right hand path. For that he couldn't forgive her. Her only redeeming quality was her deep seated and genuine love of chaos.

"No? How about-" a shapely leg lifted up next to the wooden mesh window, dress sliding down to display the clip on garter she wore, strapped to it was, of course, her fathers Exquisitely crafted Spanish hunting knife. Many said she killed him for it, before fleeding to America. Looking on the woman before him, he wouldn't have been surprised. Dark eye brows lifted, fixing Calaway with an even, amused stare. "Punish me, daddy, I've been naughty."

"I don't have time for this, Freyja." Mark deadpanned, "Tell me, what I can do for you that you saw it fit to come all this way?"

Freyja scoffed, dropping her leg back on the floor with a heavy thud, "Ugh. You're no fun... I will tell you what I need, but first- since we're in the confessional, why are you in here? Who stuffed your gigantic ass in this tiny confessional?"

"Mostly to get away from the absolutely grating sound of Christian's incessant whining, Ms. Katixa. I come here when I want to be left alone." Mark responded, trying the steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Now, to what exactly do I owe the... pleasure?"

"I'm bored, Taker." The young woman knocked her head back against the wooden confessional, making a thud that echoed through the far reaches of the building. "Business is rather slow... no one has any work for me. I thought perhaps you..."

"No." Calaway responded tersely. "Not yet."

"Oh?" Freyja leaned closer to the mesh separating her and the man they called The Undertaker. "Not yet? You have my attention."

"I'll not tell you until it's necessary." Taker responded, seriously considering leaving the confessional, realizing young Freyja likely wouldn't leave until he told her what he meant. She always was nosy.

"Oh, come on, Mark." She whined, leaning forward, nose almost touching the wooden screen dividing them. "What's a little insider knowledge between friends, eh?"

"We aren't friends."

Freyja said nothing, simply tilting her head and smirking at him. A long, pregnant pause followed, only the sound of distant clanging in the background for the useless ragtag crew Mark Calaway called his Ministry, all clamoring to hear who'd enraptured the attention of their Master when he was in one of his moods.

"The Ministry has been operating under the ground for quite sometime. But our territory is facing threats from a certain McMahon. it's time we rose. It's time we made ourselves known." He relented.

Freyja considered the words, tossing the idea around in her brain. Calaway was right, his, 'Ministry' as he called it, had only operated in the shadows as of late. But they were doing well that way. People were stupid. It was easy to convert them to a lifestyle such as this if they thought it would give them whatever it is they feel they are missing. Direction, fulfillment, a sense of purpose, spiritual enlightenment.

"You're making your big debut? Why now?" Freyja turned to Mark, who was staring holes in the wall.

"To show the people of this city what the Darkness can do for them." He mused, almost to himself. Yes, he would show them all. "Every day Vince McMahon gains more power. Everyday with the help of my wretched brother he runs and ruins this town. It is time for it to stop. It is time for someone who knows how to dominate a population to take charge."

"And by someone you mean... you?" Freyja taunted, cackling to herself. She remembered him from years ago, before his transformation. Still tall, but mild mannered and sincere. That Mark Calaway had long gone, she wasn't sure who sat across from her in the confessional box, but she knew something of his old side remained. "You couldn't lead a parade."

Freyja scoffed, "All this talk of 'Darkness' like it's something tangible, something controlling. You sound like a fucking joke. You think you can lead this whole city like your cult? It isn't going to work Father. But it sounds like a trainwreck, and I'm bored. So, I'm in."

"I didn't invite you."

"I invited myself." She motioned to the shadowy figures, now gathered. "Look at these people. You need someone with experience at your right hand, not whatever wayward zealot you happened to pluck out of the gutter. Come on, think about it. I'm an asset." Freyja prodded, poking the bear as much as she could get away with.

Taker considered the proposition. Freyja wanted in... for the entertainment value? Ridiculous. She'd make an absolute mockery of him. She did, however, have a point. He was surrounded by average Joes, and, in some cases, he was surrounded by idiots. She would have to prove herself. He wasn't just going to welcome her with open arms, perhaps a trial by fire would be appropriate. After a moment of deliberation, he had his answer...

"I have a task for you. You do this for me, I will consider it. Now, listen closely..."

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

"You... you have to be kidding me." Somarya crumpled up the note she'd been giving. Far easier than explaining everything where the poor dear would be confused, and his unskilled hands had a difficult time using the signed language of the deaf. She simply shook her head. "This isn't real, Hunter. This is... something that happens to folk in Oscar Wilde novels or.. or plays! Not us. Not us normal folks, Hunter."

"It's happening right now!" He fired back, desperate to have her complacency. He already knew what would happen if she didn't bend.

Somarya stared a hole into the dining room table. All things considered, there could be more empty ways for a woman to spend her early 20s. She thought, if nothing else, perhaps her cousins new job would be entertaining at least. Looking up at Hunter, she smirked, "I think I could stand being a storybook hero for a while."

In his relief, Hunter nearly kept from his seat. "Oh there wont be any action for you, you'll be doing a lot of waiting around at the office, you must know. If I were to get involved, you won't be safe many places, or with many people. Just think, though, the money... the underground notoriety..." He trailed off, talking more to himself now than his cousin.

"Ah! Adds some mystery to my aura, don't you think?" Somarya retorted, interrupted her guardian, making a fake pose for him, like a model from the newest Sears catalog.

"Certainly." Hunter rolled his eyes at the show. It was official. He was now one of New York's most well-kept secrets.


	3. Chapter 3

October 1911

Mark Calaway sighed, gazing out the window fruitlessly as only darkness consumed the world outside. Not even the moon spread light on the ground below, its face turned away from the earth. He rubbed at his eyes, he must be late, his predecessor had to have gone long ago. Digging for his pocket watch, he drug out the little silver timepiece from his trousers and flipped its cover open.

3.

3 am, that was. Casting one more forlorn glance at the bible and full notebook before him, he shut the tome, rising from his desk to walk towards the window. Father McCarty was gaining in age, it was only a matter of time before he was gone, leaving this church in the care of Mark, Farther Calaway. He was to be the new steward of Saint Bart's as Father McCarty faded.

Large hands rested on the windowsill, eyes narrowing to focus through the stained glass. As of late, he'd been a bit discouraged. By everything, especially his dwindling desire to be a man of piety. He'd seen the types of people than ran about with little care for God's plan. Even his own brother had done so. It was a life of absolute debauchery, and one he'd begun to realize with growing self-pity that never be apart of it. In some ways, he almost envied his little brother for the life he'd chosen. The black night that hung around him like the pelt of a dead animal did little to improve his mood.

With Farther McCarty in ill health, the reality of Mark Calaway's future was staring him in the face. It was mocking him with a snaggle-toothed grin, it looked ugly. A church already on its last legs and him, doomed to be its caretaker sooner rather than later.

It was late, he was delirious, he needed to get out of there.

This church would be his prison. Was this really all there was?

It was 13th anniversary of the day he'd been left alone, all on his own. He had recently discovered an estranged brother in Kane (who's demeanor had proven quite dissapointing!), but most of his life, he'd had no one. At the tender age of 13, everything he'd loved had burned to the ground. He'd offered Kane to live with him. It was important to him that they bonded as brothers, but all his brother had done since then was bring home guns, crime, and a particularly aggressive Basque woman named Freyja.

He'd joined the church, desperate for an answer.

Why his parents, God?

Why his brother, God?

Why a steward like Paul to usher his ways?

Here he was, 13 years later after that terrible, terrible night. 13 years, waiting for some kind of explanation, some sort of justification for his misfortune. 13 years and all he'd uncovered were simple platitudes about 'God's will'. Not Father McCarty, no other priest, not the archdioceses, not any cardinal, no one had any answers. Had he met the Pope himself, Mark was certain the answer would have been "God only gives you what you can handle."

He felt his fist, as if on instinct, hammer against the stained glass window, which buckled and emitted a loud crack under the weight of his strike. This was all an absolute farcical mockery of truth. He hit the glass again. This time it shattered. A near 10 foot tall stained glass window, splintered to pieces in a matter of seconds. It was almost satisfying. He lifted his hand up to his eye level, at once confused and pleased at what he'd done. Thin red streaks began to trickle down the contours of his hand, glowing crimson in the candlelight against his pallid skin. It had felt good to break the window. Like he was finally beginning to repay the church that had no answers for the youth he'd been robbed of. He barely even felt the pain of his sliced open palm, and as he gazed with curiosity at it, like he'd never seen his own hand before, and he realized that it was 13 years wasted.

There was no answer. He was a fool for thinking there ever was.

A voice in his head told him to do something else. Make them pay, show them how useless their God was. He was angry, for all the wrong resons, but they felt right in that moment. In his fit of anger, he swung around and knocked over the nearest candelabra, sticks of lit wax spilling about the floor and on his desk. His sermon notes caught a wayward flame, and Mark watched with something akin to indifference as the sermon notes grew from a small flame to an inferno. The light danced and flickered in his eyes. Shouldn't he be feeling something? Hours of poring over King James and only to be burned to ashes by little more than a candle, and here he was, he would let it happen. He would watch it happen. He'd considered putting out the fire. Ultimately, he simply turn his back to it. As it swallowed the papers, the bible, the desk, it followed him through the sanctuary. He looked at his hand again, soaked in his blood.

By fire his life was changed. By the blood of the Lord he had been saved. But by his own blood and his own fire, he would be reborn.

He pushed past the sanctuary doors and strolled down the granite stair way, turning around, he saw the flickering of flames poking through several windows and Mark Calaway felt nothing. He turned, and walked away. Trodding down the empty, dark streets illuminated only by the moonlight and the occasional streetlight, he retreated to his home. He thought, for sure, that perhaps he had heard screaming from within the church, but it could only be a figment of his imagination... right? Those screams haunted him as he delved farther into the darkness.

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

Mark stumbled through the apartment door. The oak that blocked the threshold made a loud creeeeaaaakkk. So much for slipping in quietly. He knew he should have gone back to see what the screaming was about, or maybe worried that he'd be tried for arson, but all he was, was tired. The kind of tired that sinks into the bones, pierces the skin. Tired of the church, tired of his degenerate brother, tired of his own self. Dropping his knapsack with a thud at the door, he hung up his coat and strolled down the hallway towards his own room to the sound of hushed conversation,

I think I heard your brother.

Doesn't matter. If he sees something he doesn't like it's his fault for lookin'. Now, focus, I'm not done with you yet.

Kane, we should at least shut the door.

I said focus.

Mark shook his head wearily, shielding his eyes and slamming Kane's door shut as he passed by the room. Finally at his own doorway, he sauntered through the door frame and collapsed on his bed, face first. One side of him was glad the church was likely still burning, the other part was damning his soul to Hell for his crimes against the Church and the Lord. It wasn't but 5 minutes before he'd passed out entirely, his body and mind tired of fighting itself.

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

Flames lapped at his feet, searing pain shooting up his legs, his back, singing his hair, and his beard. He couldn't get away. And the screaming, oh the screaming... it was ear splitting, hopeless, painful. Mark opened his eyes, a flame-wrapped figure walked towards him.

The Angel of Death?

God Himself?

Maybe the Devil?

No, the figure held the face of Father McCarty.

You left me, Mark. It said. In that burning church.

He never wanted to kill anyone. He never wanted to hurt anyone...

Spare me. He begged it, falling on his knees, consumed now, buried up to his thighs in blazing flame.

You'd not spare me... now burn...

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Mark woke with a start. Wiping his palm on his forehead, he felt himself clamming up. It was just a dream, he thought. He'd go back to the cathedral this morning, Father McCarty would be there, mourning his church, but very much alive. Rolling out of the bed from his awkward angle, he quickly changed, shaking 3 hours of sleep from his weary head. In a daze, he stumbled from the bedroom and down the hallway. Shuffling into the kitchen, he didn't even bother making eye contact with Kane.

"Going to church today, choir boy?" he taunted, looking over the top of the newspaper. Mark poured himself a cup of coffee from the piping hot percolator and pretended to ignore his little brother. Kane didn't waste any time starting back in, the fact he was being ignored seemingly eluded him, unless, of course, Kane just flat out didn't care. "The newsie told me he went by the Cathedral this morning..."

Calaway tried not to tense up at the mention of Saint Bart's. Steeling himself, he tossed back the cup of coffee like a shot, ignoring the searing trail it left through his throat, down to his stomach. It had to have been the first thing he'd felt in the past 4 hours. The cup was smacked back down on the counter so hard it could have broke but, thankfully, didn't. The last thing he needed was more glass in his palm. Saying nothing else, Mark retreated towards the door to grab his trusty knapsack and coat. Ignoring the jeering,

"Have fun at work, choir boy."

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Turning his final corner, Mark picked up his pace, nearing the Cathedral, now an empty, charred stone skeleton. Firemen walked back and forth from the building to wagons piled high with what few artifacts could be salvaged to be put in storage until the great church was restored. The blaze had long ago ate up the building and been quelled by their valiant efforts, now was the time to pick through signed records, charred candlesticks and dust the ash off the Grand Piano. Pushing past them to the somber and terse greetings of,

"Father."

Mark stumbled into the sanctuary. With no staff or congregates gathered, the room seemed eerily quiet. One could hear the sound of the ash on what once were pews flake off of the structure it used to belong to, now robbed of its form. The whole area smelled like his dream, and he breathed out a heavy sigh as if desperate to clear his lungs of the dreaded stench.

Down the stairs from behind the pulpit, a flash of movement caught his eye. Two more men, carrying a gurney laden with something that seemed humanoid from underneath the sheet that had been laid on top of it. As they drew nearer, Mark suppressed a gulp of terror. "Is that-?"

"Father McCarty? Yes," one fireman stopped in his tracks to talk to him. "The poor fellow must have been trapped in the fire. We found him in the corner of one of the offices, burnt to a crisp, and-"

The shorter of the two cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly, catching his companions attention and tilting his head at Mark, who's skin now seemed several shades whiter. The original speaker trailed off, sizing up the young priest before him.

"Sorry. You in charge of this place now?"

Father Calaway left a long, deep silence in the air. It was official, he'd killed a man, committed arson and he was going to get away with it? Better yet, it was his church now, a burnt, broken shell, something he could mold, mold into what he wanted. All these years searching for some rhyme or reason for the suffering of his past. There never was any, but with his new found apathy for the Vatican and a Cathedral building all to himself, he'd find his own reasons. Create them, if he had to. Lead others down this path he'd woven. One of darkness like that which hung in the air when he walked away from Father McCarty, leaving him to burn.

"Yes." he replied finally, a new timbre to his voice. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Heh, well good luck, Father. Looks like it's going to be quite the undertaking." The man shrugged and began to walk off, carrying the gurney, and the corpse of Father McCarty away, leaving only the smell of burnt flesh in their wake.

Mark took a step, making to go further into the Sanctuary, when stopped by a soft crunch of wooden beads being driven into a marble floor. He stopped, stooping over to pick up a forgotten rosary, miraculously untouched by hellfire. An undertaking. He mulled over the choice of words, rolling the beads in his fingers and deliberating for a moment until he spoke, almost to himself,

"Yes. It will be."


	4. Chapter 4

December 1920

Wheels skidded to a halt on the cobblestone street before the gate men. Standing at least 8 feet tall, the wrought iron gate blocking Hunter's path stood, black and brooding, an exquisitely crafted M slapped right on the front. Without even needing to tell the gate who he was or his business, they opened the barrier for him. It was almost eerie, even in the bright sun.

The past two months had been a whirlwind of new experiences. Mostly they entailed lavish parties and illegal gambling, not to mention the sheer volume of liquor that was being smuggled into the city from the sewage system, of all places. It almost made Hunter not want to drink. Almost.

It wasn't just that, however. McMahon had a well kept secret in his back pocket. One Hunter intended to know all too well.

Stephanie, the boss's daughter. She was untouchable, ethereal, an angel sent from the heavens seemingly only to vex him on purpose. She was smart, clever, and shifty. Only a man with a will could tame her, and he intended to be that man.

As rows of perfectly trimmed firs passed by, Somarya leaned her head against the unshuttered window of the carriage. Hunter had promised to buy an automobile as soon as they had the money. But for now, the beautiful beasts of burden out front were doing a fine job, though considerably slower than if they had come on four wheels and nothing else. Cars weren't fast, but they were faster. Pulling around the circle drive, the two young adults were greeted by a vast and gorgeous estate. Hellenic pillars donned the facade of the building, which was so very white, like the snow on the ground.

The residents of the McMahon household and their staff were lined up for a proper reception. As the coach pulled up, Hunter undid the latch on the door, lowering himself from the cart, and extending hands to help Somarya from the carriage. Mr. McMahon himself opened his arms wide, a receptive gesture to his house guests, giving Hunter a hearty clap on the shoulder and taking Somarya's hand lightly. Down the line they went, formal greetings exchanged with Mrs. McMahon, Stephanie, ever aloof, spurned any sort of familiar greeting, meeting Hunter with a cold, "Mr. Helmsley."

Hunter's heart sank at the greeting, no more personal than if she had greeted the news man on the corner. Hiding his disappointment, he skulked towards the door. Kane stood before it, on guard as always.

"Ah, Kane, I didn't realize you would be here, how are you?" Hunter greeted, desperate for some sort of positive interaction after Stephanie's rejection. He was granted none, and in fact, he was granted no more greeting that a simple sneer from Kane himself, eyeing the young man with thinly veiled indifference. Somarya followed soon after, gazing up at Kane but disappointed to find he made no gesture towards her either.

"Welcome, Mr. Helmsley, to my home!" Mr. McMahon stated, his hands flying out in a grandiose form. "The staff is preparing dinner, may I invite you to my cigar room?"

Hunter pulled his shirt collar from his neck, suddenly very hot. Looking about the parlor, no one seemed to be paying much attention. Least of all Stephanie. Deciding he would go, he nodded to Mr. McMahon, following him out of the foyer and stopping to lay a hand on Somarya's arm to show her were he was going. Slipping through the interior door, he continued to follow Vince, at once a little more nervous as Kane followed suit.

"Don't mind Kane." Vince threw back carelessly. "He's working right now."

Hunter nodded, not daring to look back at the monster that sauntered after them. He wondered, to himself, how Vince seemed to have a firm hold on this beast at all times. He talked about the man as if he were an animal. so something good must come out of all of it for his body guard to keep quiet even as he's spoken about as if he were inanimate.

Hunter resolved to ask him, at some point, perhaps when he didn't look so... homicidal.

Somarya stood by, albeit a bit awkwardly, as Stephanie and her mother began to saunter off through a different foyer door, unsure if she should follow. They seemed quite occupied with one another, talking and, Somarya presumed, laughing as they neared the exit. Stopping in her tracks, Stephanie turned, flipping gorgeous brown curls over her shoulder and catching Somarya's attention.

"You... coming...?" She said, from an angle which for the young cousin of Mr. Helmsley was rather awkward, but she was able to figure it out. You.. coming... Are you coming...? Are you coming with us? Somarya reached the conclusion as fast as she could, and nodded quickly to skip behind the McMahon women.

Their ventures led them to the parlor, filing in like lemmings. The room was well lit, several windows letting in the blinding light of sun reflecting off fresh white snow. Somarya gazed out the window, a vast expanse of white fluff spreading. out across what was visible to her. But here, in the comfort of McMahon's home, a fire blazed in the masonry place on the end of the room adjacent to the windows. More guardsmen stood by the door, still as statues.

Stephanie sat on the lounge chair, watchful eyes following her mother as the woman took a seat at the coffee table. Stephanie took a deep breath, managing to break the awkward silence.

"That food smells amazing!" she remarked. "God, I hope there's bread pudding."

"Stephanie!" Linda scolded, "You ought not take the Lord's name in vain! And in front of company, no less."

"She didn't hear me, ma." Steph retorted, and she was right, eyes raking the young woman who stood watching out the window, cardinals flitting about in the bushes.

"God hears." the matriarch of the McMahon family arched her brows, trying to communicate to the young woman that this is not an argument she was going to win.

"Yes, Mother." Stephanie relented sarcastically.

A harried member of the staff rushed through into the parlor. "Mrs. McMahon, if I could trouble you to come to the kitchen with me, we desperately need your approval on the presentation.."

"Oh!" The elder woman exclaimed. "Yes, of course! Stephanie..." Linda said as she stood to leave, mouthing to her daughter, Be nice.

Oooooookayyy... Steph mouthed back, leaping up from her spot on the couch to saunter her way over to Somarya.

"So, you gonna just watch the window all night or what?" Stephanie pressed, a strong need to grill the new company overcoming her. Her question was ignored, however, the young ward of her father's new right hand continuing to watch, still like a statue.

The new right hand, she thought for a moment on him. He seemed normal enough, if only he would stop ogling her. She was good-looking, and she knew it, but to have him so obviously smitten, she was a woman of discretion, and this Hunter Helmsley was far from discreet!

"Hello?" Stephanie snapped out of her thoughts to realize she still hadn't been acknowledged, and called out a little louder getting a little closer to the woman.

Hearing a soft murmur beckoned Somarya back from her spacing out, turning to see that Mr. McMahon's daughter had snuck up quite closer on her, she started, relaxing quickly and giving a breathy, if not nervous laugh. "My apologies, Miss, you startled me!"

Stephanie's eyes narrowed, and then relaxed into a calmer, almost contented expression. "Fault is all mine, you really are hard of hearing, huh?"

"Well, yes, I mean... I'm sure someone forewarned you and they weren't lying, I swear, I'm not faking it." Somarya smirked lightly in an attempt to make light of the topic and hopefully segue into a more polite conversation topic. It was rather tactless to speak openly of such things and although Stephanie didn't raise much concern over propriety, even this was a bit over the line.

"So, you're that Hunter's cousin? Tell me, how can you possibly be a ward at your age?" The young McMahon prodded, her curiosity getting the better of the conversation. She could imagine not being considered an adult at nineteen.

"For obvious reasons I suppose. I'm not mad, but the world is cruel to people like me."

"The world is cruel to everyone." Steph sighed under her breath. Maybe she didn't know what it meant to be like Somarya, but life hadn't been kind as of late. Shane had gone, off to jail. He got just a little too cocky, just a bit too careless. Worse yet, her father just... let it happen. To help the boy "learn his lesson". It wasn't fair. Her one friend on the world.

Somarya looked over to Steph, seeing her inquisitive demeanor changed, and unsure of what to do.

"Could I trouble you to show me to the washroom?" Somarya requested, if not a bit awkwardly.

"Sure, it's down the hall outside of this room, 4th door on the right but before you turn the corner. Around the corner is where the men are." Steph dismissed, common practice would be to physically show her, but the youngest McMahon let the other woman find her own way, walking off to flop on the chaise lounge at the window.

Somarya grabbed her bag and exited the parlor, skirting shyly around the guards. She 'd never intended to use the washroom in the first place. She was more curious about this gigantic beautiful house. Free in the hallway, her eyes scanned the lavish decor. Trotting down the hall, her fingertips grazed the wallpaper, expertly smoothed on the drywall, but it seemed rather fresh. Burgundy in color, the diapering had been printed on as evergreen sprigs. She wondered if this was really what rich people spent their money on... seasonal wallpaper? It seemed a bit excessive.

Turning the hallway corner, she figured she would be able to sneak past the cigar room but, rather unexpectedly, someone was standing right outside the room, in contrast to the parlor, where the guards were within. Quickly she ducked back behind the corner, but not before being noticed by the guard outside the door who wasted no time bolting over to the corner to retrieve her.

"Whatcha think you're doing, sweetheart?" Seth grabbed hold of the girl by the shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Trying to eavesdrop, are we?" he cackled.

Somarya couldn't see his face for all the jostling, he'd said something, but she couldn't tell what it was for all the unceremonious wiggling. Trying to get free, she shook her head, want to be set free. Her hands pushed futilely on his chest, but his grip would not ease.

Any intention Seth had of further torturing the poor girl was stopped short, her arms grabbed just as roughly but she was jerked out of the guardsman's grasp, body almost lifted entirely off the floor and set on the other side of her new captor, a body now between her and Seth.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kane snarled. As McMahon's personal guard, he had the responsibility of keeping the other guards in line, and torturing the new second in command's deaf ward did not fall under the realm of "in line".

"This girl was trying to eavesdrop on Mr. McMahon's conversation, you understand? Sneaking around corners like a thief, I tell you!" The younger man said, pointing a finger at a very embarrassed Somarya.

"Boy, if you think this woman is eavesdropping then you are a special kind of stupid." Kane bit back. "Back to your post, now."

Never one for words, Kane ushered Somarya away, leaving no option for argument from Seth, who returned to his post grumbling about "useless behemoth, company shill"

Kane ignored him, lightly pushing Somarya into the library, and shutting the door behond him. Taking a deep breath and turning to face her he snarled, "You're going to get yourself killed doing shit like that, girl."

Somarya looked at him just long enough to get the idea, before averting her eyes from his heavy gaze. Over the past few months the most she'd found about Kane was that he was unpredictable, his moods changeable. She wasn't afraid, she told herself, hoping it was true.

Instead of responding, she simply nodded, muttering, "Sorry, sir." meekly, closing in a bit on herself. Kane waved his hand in her line of vision, the girl averting her eyes from him, as many did.

"I'm leaving this room now, and you are going back to the parlor." He ordered, the words he said a statement, not a question or even a request.

"I understand," She smoothed, moving to cross through the open door he ushered her out of, readying her to take back off to the parlor room. "But wait-"

Somarya turned and dug in an open pocket of her purse. She'd been swift about it, when Seth had grabbed her. She was quite proud of herself. Taking the stolen goods and closing them in her palm she looked up at Kane. "I got you something."

The giant started, "I didn't-"

"It's okay." The girl interrupted, as if expecting it, and opening her hand to reveal two nice, golden cuff links.

Kane regarded them, allowing himself to crack a smirk. Somarya kept her eyes trained on him, waiting for him to say something. "Are those Seth's?"

She nodded, a breathy laugh escaping her. Her eyes continued to stare at his lips, his expression, waiting for more of a reaction. "From the first time we met, I could tell by how you looked at him that you hate that guy."

"How?" He held his hand out, letting her drop them in with a barely audible clink.

"How did I steal them? A good thief never reveals her tricks. I'm crafty. How did I know?" She tilted her head. "When all you have is sight, you learn to get a pretty good read on people. Merry Christmas, Kane." Somarya left him, deftly as a ghost.

Taking off back down the hallway, Kane turned the corner, again to meet Seth's hostile eyes before the young man stepped aside to allow him in.

"Ah, Kane!" McMahon called the second the beast ducked through the door and into the chamber, air so saturated with smoke it was fast becoming difficult to see. "Sit, please, I want you in on this conversation."

The bruno thought it odd, McMahon used him for muscle, and often. Although he was paid incredibly well, he wasn't paid to think, and he most certainly wasn't paid to strategize. But, he obeyed, taking a seat across from Vince, adjacent to Hunter.

"Gentlemen," Mr. McMahon started, "There's a fast growing threat to our operation rearing its ugly head. My sources have told me some rather alarming information."

"Oh," Kane dismissed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "So you need me to take some one out? Consider it done."

McMahon laughed bitterly, saying, "Not so fast, I want to wait, see if he encroaches on my territory."

"What's this guy up to anyway?" Hunter asked his cigar casually, "What's the big idea?"

"For now, loansharking, racketeering, and dry gambling from the sound of it. Still illegal, but less risky for the old money fools than coming to us for supply and a chance to piss away their money. I worry that the allure of dry crime is going to steal our allies from us. He starts getting his hands dirty in my businesses, there's gonna be a problem. They can't be in both of our back pockets."

"So what are we gonna do? Send a message? Rough him up? It'd give him the right idea about who he's dealing with here..." Mr. Helmsley suggested.

"Perhaps... for now, I need someone to keep an eye on them, someone unassuming. Mr. Rollins!" McMahon called, and the guard poked his head through the door. "I'd like to meet with you, after dinner."

Seth grinned fiendishly before responding "Yes sir," the excitement at being given a responsibility over the other two useless bozos stroking his ego. "Of course."

"Seth?" Kane interjected. "He couldn't control himself if you held a gun to his head."

"Well, I can't rightly have you do it, Kane."

"And why the Hell not?" Hunter begged the question. It was a decent enough question

"Because you aren't exactly unassuming... and because the racketeer," Vince blew out another puff of smoke into the already laden air. "Is your brother."


End file.
